


Bread & Butter

by wraithes



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 11:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16196987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithes/pseuds/wraithes
Summary: Two men, a few cans of beer, and the taste of fish.





	Bread & Butter

The older man tasted of the flesh of fish and the bite of beer, something sweet and earthen about his tongue as it moved against him, encouraging him. Drunken laughter, the warm and knowing kind, passed between their mouths and fluttered into the back of their throats, their amusement and excitement stirring from their bellies to their mouths. Billy had always been a good kisser, he thought to himself, an idle and passing thing that he was sure to forget in a moment’s notice - he had been good when they were seventeen and drunk out back near that haunted shed in old man Grayson’ abandoned plot, he had been too-damn-good during the divorce, he had been the-fucking-best in the nights following the final court proceedings when they kissed to the sound of the football playoffs, drunk more off each other than the cheap lager. Charlie was always more of a hockey man, but he obliged when needed. 

 

And he needed so often, as he did now, well-worn hands splayed across the rough flannel of the man who sat beneath him.

 

“You got your wheels locked this time or will I be chasin’ ya ‘cross the kitchen again,” 

 

The too-tired, too-gruff newly promoted chief of police lowered himself down against the old and tattered carpet of the other man’s trailer.

 

“Locked and loaded,” it was a soft reply, one that came slow from the firm set lips before he heard the tell-tale sound of the bars on the wheelchair being locked down into place. They both laughed then, slow and rough and raw around the edges. Age hadn’t been so hard on them, Charlie mused - sure, their bodies a little softer and a lot less lean, sun spotted and scarred and in the case of his dear friend, unusable from the waist down. Well, mostly unusable, he smiled to himself as he pawed over the front of that damn pair of wrangler jeans older than both of their kids were. What pressed against the zipper beneath his palm was none other than the beginnings of the night’s well-earned, damn-needed pleasure. 

 

“Damn impatient,” it was an accusation and an invitation all at once, Charlie’s breath warm and sweet as he allowed his head to fall into the other’s lap - the same cologne, that smoke and spice sort of scent, it hadn’t changed in the damn near thirty years they had been doing this and greeted him home just the same. Charlie looked up just in time to watch the long hair come free from its braid, his favorite part of this whole thing, before it cascaded over the broad shoulders and down over the back of the wheelchair. 

 

“Ain’t I always, old man?” 

“Guess so, old man.” 

“Well then, get to it, old man.” 

 

More laughter, slower and deeper this time, almost nervous as it always was before Charlie just sucked it up and did the damn thing - he was thinking, at this rate, they’d be one-hundred fucking years old before he stopped worrying about whether or not he was good enough to be doing this at all. Then came that reassuring hand with its signature tremor from years of hard labor and factory work, tawny flesh stretching over calloused knuckles as fingers curled into the short cropped black hair of the officer - it was as gentle as it was wanton, almost impish in how it tugged at the roots. Charlie made a soft noise, that kind of noise he knew made the stakes higher, made the whole thing a lot more urgent. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as he attempted to drown out the sound of a touchdown on the screen, “the crowd goes wild,” he mocked under his breath - how come they always had to fuck to sports, he wondered? 

 

“Will we ever fuck to something that isn’t ESPN?” It was as if Billy was in his head, reading his mind with such certainty it scared him into thinking maybe he could hear just how beautiful Charlie thought he was, too. That was more terrifying than the thoughts of sex and how good it was to ride him in that annoying-but-totally-necessary chair of his, and how much he liked it when the other man moaned when he first pushed in - god, he couldn’t ever let Billy know he thought of him as the damned prettiest thing he had ever seen. He’d never hear the end of it. 

 

“I don’t know, you’re the one who always puts it on then gets all hard on me.” 

“You’re hard too, Officer Swan.” 

“Now come on, I told you not to call me that.” 

“I told you not to call me that,” the man mocked him. 

“William.”

“Charles?” 

 

Their gazes locked for a moment before Charlie huffed, shaking his head as he focused on the task at hand, his fingers latching onto the zipper before him before tugging it down all at once, dark brown eyes looking up through the thickness of his lashes for reassurance. All he needed was that confident and curt nod to set it all in motion, the hand twisting tighter into his hair. 

 

“‘S good,” he heard the other’s voice, soft and tender above him, 

“I ain’t done nothing yet.” 

“I know, but I know it will be good when you do.” 

 

Charlie felt the juvenile heat rush to his face as he nodded then, quiet as he set to work on the other - unsheathing the length from the confines of the nicer pair of boxer briefs that the other owned, a Christmas gift from none other than himself, pumping the length in his hand until it was stiff enough to stand on its own, taking it into his mouth nice and soft but maybe-too-fast and maybe-too-soon but damn, did he need it. Billy didn’t seem to mind either, his hips seeming to relax down against the leather seat of the chair, legs falling open in that familiar way as Charlie worked him. He had liked the noises they made when together, always so passionate, so raw, so unbridled. For two men used to faking it with their previous wives, he always thought it was commendable how easy it was to be authentic. Deep thinking on his part, Charlie noted, considering he had a cock halfway to the back of his throat and his hand was slicked with the sweat of his nervous nature. 

 

“You ever,” It was that same voice from above, this time more breathless, “Think about our kids walkin’ in on all of this?”

 

Pulling off from him, a trail spit falling down his lips, Charlie stared up at him with a frantic expression, “I mean, not when I’m doin’ it, Billy, what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

 

“I don’t know, I just like to think about how you’d react.”

“I’ve got your cock in my mouth and you’re talking about our kids.”

“I mean, yeah, I said what I said. You’d get all flustered, I bet.” 

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“You’re a little cute when you’re angry.” 

“Do you ever shut up?” 

“Probably not. Haven’t in all fifty-six years.” 

“Damn you’re old.” 

 

It felt good to laugh with him, their bickering nothing other than their way of courting, warmth and affection flowing so free between them that it never really, truly mattered what asinine nonsense the other spit out during the thick of it. It had taken a long time to realize that the man above him was the backbone of what he loved about this place, what he loved sports, what he loved about hunting, what he loved about anything, really. All that he had ever known came back to Billy, his ill-timed comments and inappropriate innuendos, how good he was to hold after all was said and done and they got ready for bed. The world seemed to slow down a little bit when he was him, like nothing else seemed to matter - Charlie could have sworn even the station radio he kept strapped to his hip seemed to go off a little less, if at all, when he was kissing on the handsome native or tugging his shirt off.

 

It all went on just like that, that too-good-to-be-true thing they had mastered and cultivated over decades of are-we-aren’t-we. Charlie was good at giving head even if he didn’t think so, but he never thought too much about it when it was happening. All he knew or cared about was that he liked to hear the other, how his voice dropped into that lower register, how he said his name. How those hands, soft and tight against the back of his skull, pushed him closer when he came, how hot it was when he let himself loose upon him like that. Charlie loved everything about it, everything about Billy, from the smell of his sweat to the taste of what was left in his mouth when he pulled back, wiping at his own lips with the back of his hand. Good, too good, his own stomach left in knots as he stared up through the haze of pleasure and that dirt-cheap beer. 

 

“When’s the last time you shaved?” 

Billy’s hand ran the length of the officer’s jaw, feeling across the five o’ clock shadow. It was a caress, in earnest, a gesture Charlie had no shame leaning into. 

 

“‘Dunno, few days,” 

“Well it hurt like hell, all that stubble down there.” 

“I’ll make sure to tell management.” 

“Good, cause you just lost a faithful customer.” 

“Doubt it,” 

 

Charlie picked himself up from the ground then, a smile tugging at the corners of his thin lips as he leaned over the other, fixing up his wrinkled shirt and allowing his hands to help the other wiggle back into his pants before zipping him back up. It was cute, this sort of thing, how Billy caught him at the lips and kissed him nice and slow with a grin the only thing to break them apart. When he looked down at them, and their dark brown gazes met, Charlie decided he could do this until he died or until his body gave out beneath him. He could love this man forever, unconditionally, without fault, without limit. 

 

Forever. Charlie liked the sound of that.

 

“Round two if the Seahawks win?” 

 

He liked the sound of that, too. 

 

“Yeah Billy, that sounds real good, real fuckin’ good.”


End file.
